One Way or Another
by Ink Stained Keys
Summary: "A Study In Pink" from the cabbie's point of view. Why was he so loyal to Moriarty yet betray him in the end?


A/N: Written for the Prompt Exchange Challenge hosted by Unattainable Dreams. It's a great forum. Go check it out!

I've used dialogue from "A Study in Pink", but I've taken the liberty of excluding a few lines here and there for the sake of pace.

My first foray into the Sherlock fandom…wish me luck!

Disclaimer: I claim no rights to anything belonging to BBC or Blondie.

_"One way, or another, I'm gonna find ya, I'm gonna get ya get ya get ya get ya." -One Way or Another- Blondie [Sent by Carracosta Coffee]_

* * *

One Way or Another

It was late afternoon, but the sunlight was already fading quickly. A cab sat quietly on the side of the street, bathed in the soft light of a dying street lamp. The cab was empty, save for its driver, who sat contemplating the offer he had been given earlier in the day.

_The cabbie made his usual round, looking for passengers. He turned into a less crowded street and saw a young man in a suit waving at the cab. He pulled to a stop and the man hopped in. _

"_Where to then?" the driver asked, but the man did not respond. "Where to?" he asked slowly, thinking the man had not heard him._

"_That's a lovely picture," the man said, nodding at the small picture of two children taped to the radio._

_The driver puffed out his chest proudly. "Best children on the earth, and well-mannered to boot." _

_The man looked at him, and the cabbie shivered slightly. His cold eyes were calculating. _

"_You're dying," the man said simply. "Brain aneurism, isn't it?" _

_The cabbie gripped the wheel. "Here now. Who are you?" he asked angrily, frightened. No one knew, not even his own children, or his ex-wife. He of course had found out three years earlier. _

"_Who will support your children when daddy's gone?" the man continued, playing on the cabbie's worst fear. "All alone in the world." He let the notion sink in. "I could help you." _

"_How?" the cabbie asked hoarsely._

_The man's smile turned feral. "I will send money for your children for every person you kill." _

_The cabbie stared at him, wide-eyed. "What?" he gasped. "Why?" _

"_Heard of Sherlock Holmes?" the man asked. The cabbie nodded. Who hadn't heard of the famous detective? "Well, I'm a bit of a – a fan – of his work, and I want to create a puzzle for him. But that doesn't matter. Think about the children!" He handed the cabbie back his cellphone, which the cabbie hadn't noticed him taking._

"_How would I even kill someone?" the cabbie asked and the young man knew he had him. He handed the cabbie two small pill bottles. _

"_You like mind games don't you?" _

"_Which one's poisoned?" The man just smiled and winked. _

"_You know. Name's Moriarty. I'll call. Bye," he said in an unnerving sing-song voice. And with that, Jim Moriarty stepped out of the cab and strolled up the street and out of view, hands in his pockets and whistling a merry tune. _

_The cabbie sat in his car, staring at the bottles in his hand. _

The cabbie was brought sharply back to reality by a knock on the window. A harried looking man was knocking angrily.

"Open up!" he shouted. "Bloody idiot!"

The cabbie felt a flash of anger. "Sorry, sir. Where to, _sir_?" he asked, in a falsely respectful tone.

"The train station and hurry!" the man snapped. There was the sound of a ringing cellphone and the man fumbled in his pocket before putting it to his ear and saying, "Jeffery Patterson."

The cab moved away from the curb and headed down the street. The cabbie glanced down at the pill bottles and then at the man in his rearview mirror. Making a quick decision, he turned left. Jeffery Patterson never noticed they weren't going to the station at all.

They arrived at an abandoned office building. The cabbie put the bottles discreetly in his jacket pocket. Then he pulled out the gun-shaped cigarette lighter from his glove compartment. He had bought it as a joke; never thinking it might come in useful.

"What the hell are we doing here?" Patterson demanded. The cabbie got out of the car and moved to Patterson's door. "I said what the hell are we doing here, man?"

"Out," he said, motioning with the gun. Patterson quieted immediately. _Coward. Not so big and bold any more, are we?_

He sat Patterson down in a chair in front of a desk and placed the two pill bottles in front of him.

"Now, one's poisoned, one's not," he said, as Patterson stared at him mutely. "Pick one, and I'll swallow the other one." Of course, he had no intention of actually swallowing it.

"Are-are you_ mad_?" Patterson choked, rising. "No!" He started to head for the door.

"Please don't," the cabbie said flatly. "I'd hate for all your blood to splatter everywhere." He twitched the hand holding the gun. "I'll get you, one way or another."

Patterson sank slowly back into the chair. "Please," he begged. "Please, don't do this. Please." The cabbie stared at him, a strange thrill running through him. He _liked_ this – this feeling of power. No one ever thought the cab drivers were worth anything. _Just the back of a head._

"Look at you. Disgusting. Off to PA while your wife and children wait at home for you?" Patterson flinched. _I wish–_ The cabbie shook his head. "Choose."

Patterson had tears running down his face. He muttered to himself before finally grabbing a bottle. The cabbie raised an eyebrow. Patterson opened the bottle and swallowed the pill. He fell to the floor, coughing and choking on the foam that bubbled in his mouth, like a rabid dog's. After a moment, his eyes glazed over and he lay motionless.

_Ah, so that's the poisoned bottle. _

The phone rang in the cabbie's pocket and he looked at it. The name 'Moriarty' was visible on the screen.

"Hello?" the cabbie said.

"Well done," Moriarty's silky voice crackled through the earpiece. "I am impressed. The cold detachment, the flat tone, the fear, I would never have guessed this was your first kill if I didn't know better."

"And the money?"

"Already transferred."

"Pleasure doing business." The cabbie hung up, but Moriarty had already cut the line. He didn't know where the sudden professionalism came from, but he supposed that was what killing did to you.

His next victim was a teenaged boy. How many times had the little devils thrown rocks at his car or sprayed it with paint? It was just a big joke to them, ruining his livelihood and letting him clean their mess. The boy's fear-filled eyes were a balm to his anger, and his tears quenched the cabbie's thirst for revenge. A rainy night and an offered ride to the boy's house; no one would notice a missing teen, not until it was too late. He left the boy shaking and crying on the poolside, slowly dying even as he struggled to breathe.

The third victim was the local MP. The cabbie derived a vicious pleasure in watching her cry, begging for her life. _Since when has the government ever cared for the likes of me?_

The MP had tried to scream for help, but no one heard her in the deserted parking lot. After all, what reason did anyone have to look for her there?

Moriarty's calls came regularly after each killing, and the cabbie knew he watched each crime. He did not know how, but he found he did not much care, as long as the money was delivered.

After three consecutive "suicides", the police were beginning to become worried. There was a press conference, and the cabbie listened proudly over the radio as he drove around.

"How do we protect ourselves?" he heard a reporter ask.

"Don't commit suicide," the harried inspector replied. The cabbie nearly laughed. _As if it was that easy._ They had no clue of the genius they were dealing with.

His passengers, listening to the radio always tutted and shook their heads, wondering how someone could be so cruel and heartless as to frame murders as suicides and he always nodded, gravely.

Then a lady all in pink hurriedly got into the car. There was something about her that intrigued the cabbie. She radiated intelligence and success and a shrewd calculating mind that he would enjoy breaking.

He drove the car toward an abandoned building in Brixton. As usual, the gun came slipping out of the glove compartment and the bottles were secure in his pocket. She followed him shaking silently. He started the same conversation, as he had with the others and by the end, she had taken the same pill as all the others.

_Pity, she wasn't as clever as I thought._

A day later, Moriarty called once more.

"Well, well, well," the silky voice said over the line. "I hear that Sherlock Holmes himself is now investigating the case. A thrill of excitement shot through the cabbie.

"Oh," he said softly, "I've got him now. One way or another." He hung up.

Back in his cab, a new passenger in the seat, an unfamiliar ringing echoed in the small compartment. A pink phone was vibrating madly in the cup holder. The cabbie picked it up with shaking fingers and stared at the message, wide-eyed.

_Impossible_.

Unlocking the phone, he called the number but there was no response. He swung the car around and drove to the address, heedless of his passenger's protestations. In his rear-view mirror, he saw a tall man in a long coat and scarf running toward him.

"Aha," he breathed before driving off. He allowed himself a smug smile as they stopped the cab a few minutes later only to discover a very confused American tourist in the back seat.

_I'm invisible_.

The next day, he made his move.

"221B Baker Street," he breathed. A woman, who was about the same age as the cabbie, opened the door curiously. "Cab, for Mister Sherlock Holmes," he said with a smile. Her eyebrows went up, but she nodded.

"One moment," she said, before running up the stairs. He followed her to see the top flat in chaos as policemen searched the place. Sherlock Holmes, himself was standing frozen in the middle of the room and two men were staring intently at him.

The doctor – Jim? James? – hurried to the laptop as it started to beep, exclaiming in disbelief that the phone was there.

_He will come. _And the cabbie went back to wait near the cab.

Barely a few minutes later, Sherlock Holmes was standing in front of him.

"Taxi for Sherlock Holmes," the cabbie said amicably.

Sherlock did not bat an eye. "I didn't order a taxi."

"Doesn't mean you don't need one." The cabbie smiled inwardly as Sherlock's eyes flickered with interest for a moment.

"You're the cabbie. The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was _you_, not your passenger."  
"See? No one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like you're invisible. Just the back of a head. Proper advantage for a serial killer."  
"Is this a confession?"  
"Oh, yeah. An' I'll tell you what else: if you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise."  
"Why?"  
"'Cause you're not gonna do that."  
"Am I not?" Sherlock gave him a questioning look.  
"I didn't kill those four people, Mr. Holmes. I spoke to 'em ... and they killed themselves. And if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing." He leaned forward.

"I will never tell you what I said."

"No one else will die. I believe they call that a result."

"But you will never know how they died. What kind of a result do you care about?"

_Gotcha._

For if there was one thing Sherlock Holmes would track to the ends of the earth, it was a puzzle without all the pieces – and here the cabbie was, offering it to him on a silver plate.

In truth, the other's had been _so_ weak, it had not taken much to push them into choosing a pill – just the right amount of fear, guilt, anger. But Sherlock, Sherlock was special. Sherlock was not susceptible to the same flimsy emotions. He needed to be intrigued, and so he had fallen for the trap, hook, line, and sinker.

"Let me take you for a ride," the cabbie said, in the same pleasant voice.

"So you can kill me too?" Sherlock asked coldly.

"I don't wanna kill you, Mr. Holmes!" The cabbie sounded offended. "I'm gonna talk to you and then you're gonna kill yourself." He looked away. Sure enough, the cab shook as the rear door opened and then slammed shut.

The drive to the empty school building was silent. The cabbie could feel Sherlock's eyes reading him in the rear view mirror, but he made no sign of noticing. They pulled up and Sherlock's eyes flicked towards the building looking slightly interested.

"You just walk your victims in?" he asked. "How?" The cabbie raised his gun and pointed it at Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes in disappointment, and the cabbie was almost hurt. "Dull."

"Don't worry, it gets better," he said thinking about the bottles concealed in his pocket. He put the gun away and walked in. Sherlock followed him. They entered an empty classroom and the cabbie sat in a chair across a desk. "So, what do you think?" He gestured to the classroom.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Well, you're the one who's going to die here."

Sherlock gave him a _look_. "No, I'm not."

"That's what they all say." The cabbie smiled at him.

Sherlock sighed. "Took me away from all those policemen? They're not all stupid, and Mrs. Hudson will remember you. Quite the risk for a serial killer."

The cabbie let out a derisive laugh. "You call that a risk? No, this," – he placed a bottle on the table between them – "_this_ is a risk." At Sherlock's lack of response, the cabbie continued, "Oh, I love this 'cause you don't get it yet, do you? But you're about to." He placed the second bottle on the table.

"Ooh, you're going to love this."  
"Love what?"  
"Sherlock Holmes. Look at you! Here in the flesh. That website of yours: your fan told me about it."  
"My fan?"  
"You are brilliant. You are a proper genius. "The Science of Deduction." Now that is proper thinking. Between you and me sitting here, why can't people think?"

"Oh, I see. So you're a proper genius too."  
"Don't look it, do I? A funny little man driving a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you ever know." He looked inordinately pleased with himself.

"Okay," Sherlock said slowly, "Two bottles. Explain."

"There's a good bottle and a bad bottle. Take the pill from the good bottle and you live; take it from the bad bottle, you die."

Sherlock looked intrigued. "Both bottles are identical, of course. And you know which one is which?"

"Of course. Wouldn't be much of a game if I didn't."

The detective's face became impassive once more. "What's in it for me?"

The cabbie's face had lost all trace of a smile. "I haven't told you the best bit. Whichever bottle you choose, I'll swallow the other pill at the same time. I won't cheat." With Sherlock Holmes, he found that he really would take the gamble. "It's your choice. Take your time. I want your best game."

"It's not a game. It's _chance_." Sherlock seemed nearly angry.

"I've played four times and I'm alive. I understand how people think. Chance? No, it's _chess_ with one move. One survivor. And this is the move." He pushed the left hand bottle forward, tilting his head inquisitively. "Good bottle or bad bottle?"

Sherlock glared at him. "Fifty-fifty chance." The cabbie sighed, disappointed.

"Everyone's so stupid. Even you." Sherlock's face tightened.

"You risked your life to kill people. Why?"

The cabbie shrugged. "Time to play."

But Sherlock leaned forward, scrutinizing, and the cabbie realized why people loved and hated Sherlock Holmes in equal measures. He read your soul like an open book.

"Oh, I _am_ playing. This is _my_ turn. There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there's no one to tell there's a photograph of children. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd died, she'd still be there. The photograph's old but the frame's new. You think of your children but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it _still_ hurts."

The cabbie could feel his heart twisting with grief. His children. Their bright happy laughter echoed in his mind, and then Moriarty's voice filled his head. _"I will send money for your children for every person you kill."_ The cabbie swallowed heavily, and tightened his grip on the fake gun.

"Ah, but there's more," Sherlock continued. "Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you're wearing's at least ... three years old? Keeping up appearances, but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's _that_ about?" Something flashed in his eyes as the answer presented itself to him. "Ahh. Three years ago – is that when they told you?"

The cabbie was shaking lightly. "Told me what?"

"That you're a dead man walking."

The cabbie sighed. Of course he knew. "Aneurism, right here." He touched the side of his head.

"You've killed four people because you're bitter?"

"Outlived."

"No," Sherlock continued, as though he hadn't spoken. The cabbie was starting to wish he had never involved Sherlock at all. This was the start of the end. "Bitterness is paralytic. Love, now that's a much stronger motivator. This is about your children."

"They won't get much when I die. Not much money in being a cabbie. But I've got a sponsor."

Sherlock scoffed. "Who would sponsor a serial killer?"

"Who would be a fan of Sherlock Holmes? You're not the only one to enjoy a murder." The cabbie became frustrated. He pulled out the gun. "Now choose, or I pull the trigger."

Sherlock smiled. "The gun." The cabbie's eyes widened a fraction. _Damn, he knows._

"Are you sure?"

"I'll take the gun."

The cabbie's mouth tightened. He pulled the trigger and the lighter clicked as a flame burst into light. Sherlock rose from the desk.

"I know a gun when I see one. I'll look forward to the court case." He made his way to the door in a swirl of coat.

_NO!_ The cabbie thought angrily. _I will beat Sherlock Holmes, one way or another, I will._

He spoke in the same tone. "Just before you go, did you figure it out – which one's the good bottle?  
"Of course. Child's play," the detective spoke far too quickly, as though trying to convince himself.  
"Well, which one, then?" Sherlock was silent. "Which one would you have picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you? Come on. Play the game," he enticed.

Sherlock stepped back and picked up the left-hand bottle, bouncing it.

"Oh. Interesting." _Damn._ "So what do you think? Shall we? _Really_, what do you think? Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life?" Sherlock was gazing at the bottle, holding it up to the light, entranced.

"I bet you get bored, don't you? I _know_ you do." He had to keep Sherlock interested.

"A man like you – so clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it? Still the addict, but this – _this_ is what you're really addicted to, isn't it? You'd do anything – anything at all – to stop being bored. You're not bored now, are you? Isn't it good?" He was nearly there. Sherlock was curious, really curiousl

There was an explosion and a searing pain in his shoulder. Blood was pouring out of the wound as he collapsed to the ground.

Sherlock dropped to his side. "Was I right? I was wasn't I?" _Ha, I got you in the end_, the cabbie thought viciously, through the searing pain. Sherlock threw the bottle aside angrily.

"Okay tell me this, who is your sponsor? My fan, what is his name?" _Moriarty!_ The cabbie had nearly forgotten him. Moriarty watched every scene, every murder, and this one involved Sherlock Holmes. He would know that the cabbie had been shot. Any moment now, Moriarty would save him.

"No," he said, loyally. His vision was darkening from the pain. _Any moment._

A grinding pain erupted in his shoulder and he cried out in pain.

"A name!" Sherlock demanded, and that was when the cabbie realized. _He betrayed me_. Moriarty would never come for him. He was going to die alone and in pain in this abandoned building. His kids probably never got the money they were promised. He thought of the people he had killed as their faces swam across his blurry vision: the man, the minister, the teenaged boy, the lady in pink. He felt sick.

"Moriarty!" the cabbie screamed. Revenge. If he miraculously lived, he would hunt Moriarty down. If he died, Sherlock Holmes would find this man. Of this he was sure, and Moriarty would suffer. With this vengeful thought, his head rolled back and he slipped into darkness. One way or another, he would have his revenge.

* * *

A/N: So there you have it. It didn't come out exactly as planned. I hadn't meant to focus quite as much on the scene with Sherlock and I meant to get into the cabbie's head some more, but this is my favorite episode and the plot bunnies took my brain and ran with it. I hope you like it!


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